


A Case of Mistaken Identity

by patternofdefiance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Holly - Freeform, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kiss stolen beneath mistletoe... or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Mistaken Identity

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дело об ошибочной идентификации (A Case of Mistaken Identity)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2857397) by [Sevima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevima/pseuds/Sevima)



> Not beta'd, because goodness me I'm posting on Christmas aaaaaaaaaah...
> 
> (Happy Christmas everyone, I hope everyone has had a lovely day!)

“John, a moment?”

John pauses in the doorway, turns to ask Sherlock what or why, and so his mouth is open when Sherlock’s lips brush against his. The warm space of John’s mouth is, for a moment, completely vulnerable, crowded with a breath not his own, bordered by an altogether different space and warmth.

And then everything is back to normal – other lips aren’t redefining the edge of his, and his breath huffs into the room, not Sherlock’s mouth.

Around them, beyond the doorway, the sounds of New Scotland Yard continue. It doesn’t seem as if anyone noticed.

“Sh-r –” John stops, purses his lips, swallows, dipping his head to the side with a frown. He tries again: “Sherlock, what was that?”

There is the barest hint of humour in Sherlock’s eyes, flickering alongside something liquid yet tense, indefinable but sharp, as if Sherlock is holding something inside his skin as still as possible. His eyes are steady on John’s as he says, “Mistletoe, John.”

John takes half a step back and looks up: above them, hung from the door mantle, a decorative bough of dark green leaves, almost spiny in their pointiness, with bright red berries clustered in threes and fours throughout. John frowns. “Sherlock, that’s _holly_. Mistletoe has softer leaves and white berries –”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face is still close. “Oops.” His mercurial eyes seem to be trying to transfer something unspoken to John, as if words could pour, invisible, into John from Sherlock. “My mistake.”

John looks up at him, disbelieving. “No-o-o,” he says, and his eyes flick between Sherlock’s gaze and lips. This moment, this closeness is reminiscent of another time, another place, a long ago drugs bust when Sherlock had first disabused John of his assumptions about the detective. It’s so similar that John actually feels his mouth quirking at the memory of their first night as friends.

But now he knows Sherlock a little (a lot) better. And while he knows that Sherlock does make mistakes (glorious, hideous, _catastrophes_ of mistakes), this was not one of them. “I don’t think so.”

John closes the bare sliver of distance between them.

Sherlock’s mouth opens at first touch, lips soft and pliant and eager – and his eyes slip closed as John deepens the kiss. Hands grip, arms lift to encircle, torsos torque to touch, breaths mingle and –

And this time, the good officers of NSY _definitely_ notice.


End file.
